


Spices

by pippen2112



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Canon-typical language, Cooking, Injury Recovery, RvB Platonic Week, Sign Language, Spoilers, post s15
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-15
Updated: 2017-10-15
Packaged: 2019-01-17 20:50:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12373797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pippen2112/pseuds/pippen2112
Summary: Recovery is a delicate business, one Wash should be better at by now.  Luckily, there are ways to get him to slow down.  The best ones involve food.Written for RvB Platonic Week 2017 Day 1, Opposite Sides.





	Spices

“Agent Washington!”

Wash startles, dropping the set of dumbbells he’s been curling with, missing his toes by inches.  He stares down at the gym floor, trying to catch his breath as he pushes his hair off his sweaty brow.   _Shit, where are my shoes?_  

He remembers staring up at the ceiling this morning, wishing he could roll over and shriek into his pillow, but no, that’s against Dr. Grey’s orders.  He remembers convincing himself to get out of bed… somehow… He remembers flinching at the sight of his armor, at the phantom pain from standing too still for too long, not able to so much as shift his weight or scratch his nose, at the searing sensation of lead through his throat.  Just the thought of it leaves his hands shaking.  

And now, too many hours later, he’s drenched in sweat, his ratty sweatpants hanging on his hips, his muscles cramping.  And he’s still not stronger.  Not faster.  Not better.   _Not an asset to your team._  His throat aches, maybe from grunting unconsciously as he pushes through rep after rep, maybe just from his own stupid brain.

As he struggles to put together the events of this morning, a familiar hulking form steps into his field of vision.  Broad shoulders in a too tight shirt, long dark hair pulled into a ponytail.  Locus.  Wash has to force himself to relax.  When he’s out of armor, Wash can convince himself Locus is on their side.  But when Locus puts on his armor, well, old habits are the hardest to break.  

Shaking himself out of his stupor, Wash squares his shoulders and meets Locus’s gaze.  He signs quickly because endorphins jump through his hands and Locus is about the only one of their crew who can keep up.   _“Did you need something?”_

Locus frowns.  To be fair, he’s always frowning at something or another, like a grumpy old dog, but right now, the corners of his mouth dip lower.  His eyes tighten as he nods tersely.  “Yes.  In the kitchen.”

 _Should’ve guessed._  Since the Reds and Blues picked Wash up off Chorus and returned to their little moon and found a stowaway in the cargo hold, Locus has nominated himself as their cook.  At least once he’d convinced everyone he wasn’t planning on poisoning them.  Wash hadn’t much cared; if it weren’t for Locus’s quick attentions, he’d have bled out on the floor of Temple’s base.  Even if he didn’t know how to trust Locus, Wash figured he owed Locus the same chance the Reds and Blues had offered him.  

Still, Sarge insisted on observing all communal meal preparations, but overall, it was probably a change for the better.  Grif had done a decent job making their rations edible, but deep frying everything and smothering the results in cheese, though delicious, was hardly nutritionally sound.  Much to Tucker and Caboose’s chagrin, the new chef meant more meals composed primarily of vegetables from Carolina and Donut’s vegetable patch, but at least meals didn’t require an hour of naptime afterward.

Locus leads the way to the partially enclosed kitchen tacked onto Red Base, near enough that communal evening meals have become a thing, but far enough Caboose forgets about the kitchen and doesn’t try any disasterous attempts at baking.  Tucker’s told Wash all about the midnight fire alarms back at Blood Gulch.  Wash doesn’t think his blood pressure could take it.

Wash follows Locus halfway to the stove, drawn by his nose to the pot bubbling away.  Locus gives him a stern look, nothing grim or mean, just an unyielding stare that doesn’t soften until Wash sighs and back away to his usual spot at the mismatched, shoddily constructed table and chairs made from shuttle parts and the local flora.  The moment he drops into his chair, Wash’s muscles quiver in relief.   _Fuck, pushed too hard.  Again._  Come morning, he’ll be a mess of aches.  Wash stretches his legs, biting back a groan.  Even a shitty stretch is better than none.

He’s so distracted by his body threatening to seize up and die on him, Wash doesn’t notice Locus until he’s standing across the table from him, balancing a bowl between his hands, a spoon handle sticking just past the lip.  He sets the bowl down gingerly and slides it across the table to Wash. Smokey, spiced steam wafts into his face. Wash leans forward, intrigued.  He gapes down at the golden brown broth, and his stomach growls.   _Did I even have breakfast?_  Again, he can’t remember.

Locus stands at attention, his back straight and his arms clasped behind him.  He watches Wash carefully, the inner edge of his bottom lip caught between his teeth, his eyes focused so intently he’s squinting.  Wash furrows his brow, but the only response he gets is more stony silence.

And fuck does that soup smell good.  So good that if Locus has just been conning them, he’d probably be okay with it.  For a last meal, well, it’s not a double cheeseburger with zucchini tots, but beggars can’t be choosers.

Wash leans forward, grabs the spoon and tries a generous helping.  The broth scalds his tongue, but underneath the heat, there’s a complex mix of spices.  The chicken is tender, and the noodles so buttery they almost melt in his mouth.  It takes every ounce of his self-control not to moan.  Not a sound, Dr. Gray was clear.  No vocalizations until after his next follow-up.  As Wash takes another bite, though, he realizes that their pantry is pretty much limited to MREs and a few kitchen staples.  They don’t even have flour, much less chicken, noodles, and spices.  How the fuck did Locus manage this?

He sets his spoon down to sign, but Locus interrupts.  “The meat came from the flock of fowl Caboose and Donut found roosting in the remains of the water park.  The noodles are a blend of unflavored protein supplement, dehydrated egg powder, and local eggs.”

_“The spices?”_

Now Locus ducks his head.  It’s more of a flinch, actually, but it’s telling nonetheless.  “My personal supply.”

Wash pauses just long enough to make sense of this information.   _“Is that a normal part of a mercenary’s kit?”_

“Not exactly.  But my mother would skin me alive if she discovered I went off-world without at least cumin and garlic.  She had opinions.”

Wash can’t help his grin.  If he had the energy or the ability, he’d be rolling on the floor, snorting up a storm.  Over the past few weeks, Locus occasionally lets slip these little gems about his history.  First, they learned his grandmothers taught him how to spin, knit, and crochet when Locus had started collecting and cultivating fibrous plants with bright yellow, cotton-like yields.  Then, he’d revealed he could make cheese while bemoaning the synthetic orange mush that came in their MREs.  And now, spices.  With each piece of information, a little more of the monstrous, mercenary husk got hacked away.  A little more of the real Locus shone through.

Taking in the kitchen, the bowl of soup, the distant sounds of Sarge and Simmons leading a one sided game of capture the flag, Wash couldn’t help asking, _“Why?”_

Locus went still for a moment, slowly shifting his weight foot to foot, searching for an answer.  “I was… homesick.”  It seemed a reasonable enough excuse, but Locus’s tone left much to be desired.  

Wash raised an eyebrow, not breaking when Locus looked up to see if Wash had accepted his lie.  His shoulders tensed, probably because his hands were clenched behind his back, and sighed.  “Because I….” He looked down at his feet, and started again.  “I may not have been the one to shoot you, Agent Washington, but your predicament is still my fault.  Please allow me to make what reparations I can.”

Wash startled, his cheeks suddenly burning.  He knew the feeling all too well, the need to tread lightly around a certain soldier who favored “light-ish red” armor, to make up for his stupid, selfish, vengeance driven actions.  Sometimes old guilt still twisted up his insides, but he’d learned long ago that Donut didn’t care about the past, only the future.  Hell, maybe he could too.

Signing a quick _“Thank you,”_ Wash dug back into the soup. It’d be a pity to waste something so good.

**Author's Note:**

> Questions, comments, and concrit welcome! Come scream with me on Tumblr (birdsbeesandlemonadetrees.tumblr.com)


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